


Song x Rider [Wanting]

by HARDCOREPROCESS



Series: HCP Tumblr Ficlets [51]
Category: Furi (Video Game)
Genre: Chastity, F/M, Ficlet, Hand Partialism, Keeping the Peace, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Mouth Partialism, Power Dynamics, Touch-Starved, Yearning, partialism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29902965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HARDCOREPROCESS/pseuds/HARDCOREPROCESS
Summary: Though it has only been two weeks since the Stranger agreed to stay with her, the Song is rapidly realizing he is more nuanced than the average monster.
Relationships: Rider | The Stranger/The Song
Series: HCP Tumblr Ficlets [51]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908628
Comments: 4
Kudos: 1





	Song x Rider [Wanting]

It’s been two weeks. With the realm in a near-constant state of dusk, her biometric readers are a steady chronology she’s come to rely on. Somehow, these fourteen days have drawn themselves out into something comparable to the three years spent _waiting_ , teeth gritted, fists tight against her sides. (Has it really been three years? Well, two and some months.)

She has her misgivings about the prison’s Architect, and while he _did_ manage to engineer a space where the Stranger’s dangerous aura would not permeate or destroy, the Sixth Guardian isn’t so sure it’s as flawless as he claimed. Time seems to slow around her new companion, like the seconds are in a state of decay. Watching him feels as though the world is covered in a thick film. Like moving through gelatin, through a hologram where the speeds are lowered just enough to be noticeable.

And that isn’t even getting into _his_ _mannerisms_.

The Stranger is... well, she admits to herself that the only word for it is _strange_. Many simple things confuse him, visibly so with the pinch of his brows and the furrow of an expression she’s seen on children attempting to fathom sums. Her hand on his arm, her fingers in his hair, her shoulder leaned against his as they observe birds all startle him. He rarely breathes, but he always seems to inhale when she initiates contact.

He does not touch her first. In the beginning, she suspected revulsion. But he does not touch _anything_ if he can help it. When the Stranger stands still enough that wildlife rests on him, he remains there. When crouched to observe flowers, he does not reach out. The Song now suspects that he is... in some way _aware_ of what he is capable of. Unbidden, something aches in her at the thought, the idea of being fully aware one kills and maims and corrupts just by existing. She thinks of the Strap briefly, something misunderstood and now long-dead. She wonders how much that prisoner had in common with her companion.

With a start, the Song realizes she’s been staring at him, and he is now staring back at her. “Is everything alright?” she asks, her voice gentle but impossible to ignore. As always, the Stranger does not reply. He breaks eye contact first and goes back to watching a flower bloom. He never speaks. Perhaps he can't. Perhaps he never learned how. Could she teach him to? Could she encourage his voice?

At her reminder of a shared bedtime, he rises. Mechanical, fluid, coming to stand at her side without complaint. He enjoys orders, she’s learned, or maybe they are all he knows. She recalls the Hand, describing the Stranger to her and the Edge when they were awaiting the prison's completion. _Only men of war move that way._

What wars has the Stranger seen? She wonders, reaching up to cradle his face. The man goes very still. He inhales, eyes widening minutely. She presses her lips to his, part of her promise to belong to the Stranger in exchange for his peace, and he leans into her soft mouth with a quiet grunt. His hands are tight fists behind his back, kept away even as she steps closer. There's a thick emotion in the air.

The Song thinks it might be _want_. A lurking desire to have her in a way he may not understand. Carefully, her hands come to rest on his hips, her soft stomach pressed to his pelvis given their respective heights. He leans into her again, heavy, his nose brushes her hair. The pressure is undoing him. How much longer will the resolve last?

**Author's Note:**

> You can find the Tumblr mirror here: [**ORIGINAL**](https://hardcoreprocess.tumblr.com/post/628524915783581696/furi-content-because-im-allowed-the-stranger)


End file.
